by Lexi Ander
The person kneeling afore him could be the man Granda had foretold, the one whose future would be yoked to his, and yet Ewen could only stare, confounded, scrambling for a way to save him. Not finding one, he unwillingly stepped forward, raising his sword for the killing blow, not believing he could bestow it.
“Ewen, enough,” the High Steward called tiredly, and Ewen glanced over his shoulder. Walter fitz Alan stood within a circle of his kinsmen, war weary and sallow faced. The Mormaer of Athall, Mael Coluim, had charged Ewen with the High Steward’s safety, so he had spent his days in battle near Walter fitz Alan. As second only to the King of Alba, the High Steward desired the best men-at-arms at his side. Those who knew Ewen swore he never lost a fight, though none but his kinsmen understood why, and so Ewen’s liege lord trusted he had the skill to protect the High Steward.
“Enough blood has been shed this day. Our enemi be dead by your hand. The battle be over and we have won. Take the pagan; he be yours to do with as you will.”
Ewen breathed a silent sigh of relief but held to a stern mask, for he smelled a kinsman, Cináed, approaching. Lately Cináed’s scent had been mingled with sour traces of strangers Ewen could not track. With each excuse to visit Glaschu, Cináed spent longer and longer periods of time away from his lands, a sennight turning into a fortnight or more, allowing himself to be beguiled by those who would test the loyalty of a man to his king. This day, Ewen had discovered that the scents of the King of the Isles’ nobles, as well as Gillie Ainndreis, matched those Cináed bore when he journeyed home from his far away visits. Cináed might foolishly believe none but his most trusted knew his purpose, but he could not deceive Ewen’s nose. Yet though Ewen divined Cináed’s treachery, he lacked proof to bestow unto their liege lord.
Lately, Cináed reeked of envy when he entered Ewen’s presence, jealous of Ewen’s growing wealth and the Mormaer of Athall’s rising respect for his house. He laughed and clapped Ewen’s back in a show of accord and fellowship, but Ewen knew Cináed sought a way to be rid of him without being labelled kinslayer. In the meantime, whilst he plotted, Cináed offered a hand of friendship Ewen knew to be false. However, the time for revealing Cináed’s nature was yet to be determined, and if Ewen openly refused his overtures, the price would be costly to both Ewen and his kin.
“Pagan dog.” Cináed removed his helm, his dark hair tumbling loose from the tie at his nape to hang tangled in his face. He spat at the kneeling man, his new-found arrogance pushing Ewen’s tolerance and patience to the very edge.
Cináed wore armour of quality, with a rare coat of chainmail, whilst his men wore segmented leather plates and bracers at Ewen’s expense. The reign of King Malcolm had begun with one battle after another, challenges from those who thought it would be easy to steal the throne from a boy. The assault by the King of the Isles was just one in a series of conquests seeking to unseat King Malcolm and replace him with another of the Highland mormaers’ choice. They forgot the king’s ties to the Normans, whose armoured knights made up half of his superior armee. Since Ewen’s return to Alba a dozen twelvemonths agone, his smithies had been busy making suits of war to supply his own knights and men-at-arms. Cináed had taken advantage of that fact when they were called to Castle Renfra, guilting Ewen with his lack of coin and inability to properly arm his men for battle. Much to Cináed’s chagrin, a bargain was struck rather than a gift given. If Ewen armed Cináed’s men, then in lieu of coin they would be Ewen’s to command. Cináed had grudgingly complied, grumbling that he had not thought Ewen would demand such. Cináed’s had spoken not to Ewen since, but all had heard of Cináed’s fit of temper at the deal. That he approached Ewen now with a friendly smile and a slap upon the back bade not well.
“The pagan be worthless and shall only befoul yer house and name. Kill him and let us find some good drink and a wench or two to warm the bed.”
Ewen froze, his mathan roaring to life at Cináed’s words. Turning his back to the foreigner, relying upon the instinct that said the pagan would raise no hand against him, Ewen faced Cináed, the men of his house outnumbering Cináed’s two to one. As a kinsman and once belovèd friend of Ewen’s granda, Cináed commanded the respect of the men of Clan Meinnear, but even so, he had overstepped his boundary of authority with this demand Ewen destroy a gift afore witnesses.
The High Steward had turned to leave, however he halted at Cináed’s careless words of scorn for his generosity, his brow furrowed into a deep frown. If needed, Walter fitz Alan would be Ewen’s witness should he and Cináed come to blows. Though Ewen had no wish to fight again so soon after the battle, he declined to allow Cináed to force his hand with regards to the pagan.
Keeping his voice calm, he replied, “Methinks not, cousin. You cannot command me to destroy my own property, a gift of the High Steward. I shall keep the warrior and take him into my home to attend me as a manservant.” At Cináed’s scowl, Ewen added, “I have no quarrel with you, Cináed, natheless the fate of this man lies in my hands, not yours. This be not up for debate. Force not my hand on this matter. You have overstepped your authority afore witnesses. It be my right to demand homage for the lack of honour you have shown me this day, but I shall stay my hand for the time being. Your manners stink of deceit.”
Cináed’s cheeks puffed out and his eyes grew wide with ire. Sending him away with a dismissive wave of his hand, Ewen instead addressed the men of his house.
“Edan, Olghar, gather the men and wounded. Reap what you can from the field of battle and make sure tribute be bestowed unto Walter for King Malcolm. We leave for home once my business here concludes. Have all able-bodied men begin the preparations. Donn, Arailt, attend me. We shall escort Walter to his tents.”
Glancing back at the pagan, Ewen met his ice-blue gaze, patiently waiting as Cináed stormed away. Cináed’s men unwillingly trailed behind him, well aware they could not escape his fit of temper until end of day. The more Cináed acted out, the more unfavourable attention he brought upon himself from the Mormaer of Athall. Mael Colium would not abide such tantrums from Cináed for long. If Cináed continued, the mormaer would be forced to strip Cináed of his land and title and award them to someone more agreeable. Ewen only hoped it would be afore Cináed drew first blood, for that Ewen would not forgive. As it be, Cináed would exact a high price for Ewen plainly denying him and calling his motives into question. Clearly, Cináed wanted him dead, and though Ewen had his suspicions, the why was unclear.
Turning to face the kneeling man, Ewen gave him the full weight of his stare. “I be Ewen mhic Friscalach, toisech and leader of the Loch Raineach shire. What be you called?”
“Roi mhic Alric.” His voice was low and accented, the rounded tone of one who spoke a tongue foreign to their own. The pagan carefully watched Ewen’s every move, as if he thought Ewen would change his mind and claim Roi’s life. His scent, heavily woven with that of deep despair, was unlike any Ewen had tasted ere now.
“You heard my words. You be my manservant, but first I would have your oath afore you keep company with us. For many days I have watched you; you never strayed far from the King of the Isles’ side.”
“Not by choice. The cur, Gillie Ainndreis, be the reason why,” Roi said, his wary visage becoming a hardened veil.
“Then it shall be no hardship to swear oath to me. I be not a hard master. All who live under my protection know me as an even and fair man. You give unto me an honest day’s work, and in return I shall bestow an honest wage. If you refuse to give your vow, I shall be forced to see you shackled and guarded like a common brigand. Choose.”
For a short while, Ewen thought Roi would gainsay his demand. Those blue eyes seemed to see through him, Roi’s countenance that of a person who did not understand what had just befallen him. Ewen’s patience thinned as his body began to feel battle weary. Afore he could snap at Roi, the man spoke in a tongue sounding much like Gaulish, or mayhap Eburones or Tulingi. Ewen had not heard those tongues since travelling with Granda as a boy. Ha
ppily, he need not worry what words Roi spoke for he soon translated.
“My shield in defence, my sword for redress, my arm in labour, my mind in council, my fate be now bonded to ye. Yer life afore mine, yer house afore mine, yer kin afore mine, all of this I vow.”
Ewen stared at Roi, scenting the air about him with care, sensing only honesty. “Then arise and collect your weapons, much needs be done this day.”
Roi climbed to his feet, his eyes full of wonder and mayhap a little stunned. Sure of his loyalty, for now, Ewen moved to Walter’s side, ready to grab his arm if it appeared his strength would fail him. The day had been long, and the armour of a knight became increasingly heavy after a battle such as this.
Behind him, Ewen heard his cousin, Arailt, address Roi, not unkindly but in warning. “Do not think him weak because he has shown mercy. If ye seek to cross him, his judgement be swift, and he shall not be so merciful.”
Ewen almost tripped when Roi replied, “All of my life I have awaited the guardian. This day, my fate had been to perish here upon this field. I can no more raise a hand against him than I can against meself.”
IV
Roi Iain mhic Alric
Afore the Battle
THREE TWELVEMONTHS Roi endured torment under the thumb of Gillie Ainndreis, the favoured advisor to the King of the Isles. Finally, all the machinations, all the labour he had put into ending his servitude to Gillie Ainndreis was at hand. All this time, he had patiently awaited Gillie Ainndreis’ downfall whilst the man twisted Roi’s gift and forced Roi to see for him. Gillie Ainndreis’ yearning for power knew no bounds yet Roi applied great patience, knowing there would be an end to the wretchedness he experienced by the cur’s hand.
For days, as they battled the High Steward’s men-at-arms, Roi attempted to manoeuvre Gillie Ainndreis in the direction of King Malcolm’s standard bearers against the King of the Isles’ desires. The time of Gillie Ainndreis’ undoing oft be within sight, yet he constantly declined to cross swords with High Steward Walter Fitz Alan.
Until this day.
Cerridwen, Goddess of Dark Prophecy, had whispered in Roi’s dreams last eve. When he awoke, Roi knew his forced thraldom would soon come to an end. Gillie Ainndreis had actively avoided most of the fray because any who challenged High Steward Walter fitz Alan were quickly and efficiently destroyed by the mighty men-at-arms who steadfastly defended him. This day would be different, for they would seek out the King of the Isles, and Roi would ensure the King of the Isles and his core nobles met the High Steward upon the field.
Roi rose and dressed in the crimson robes bestowed unto him by his mentor, Alric, when he reached his majority. The garments were the only possession he had saved from the fire that destroyed his goddess’s temple. Now, he wore them for his final day, the bright colour a summons to those who sought to crush the King of the Isles’ raid, and as a poetic touch to the first vision Roi had seen of the warrior who would claim Roi’s life.
Roi had beheld the visage of his dark warrior uncountable times ere now. Awake or sleeping, the visions cared not for his activity or where he happened to be when they came upon him. His first seeing of the Highlander had arisen when he entered the sacred circle at the urging of his mother. The instant his feet touched the chilled stone, Roi had been carried to a bloody field of battle, the clash of metal, the moans of the wounded, and the smell of the dying, all of it dulled and muted to his dream senses.
Two things stayed with him from his first clear vision: the prevailing amount of blood, the elixir that allowed people to live, weaving a bright-hued red carpet beneath his feet, and the warrior, dark of hair and strong of arm. The man fought like a newly caged beast, glowing with an inner power as if part of him struggled to be free.
And he was glorious.
Over the years, as Cerridwen bestowed unto Roi many visions of the mighty warrior, he slowly came to understand his life would end the day they crossed paths. When Roi espied his warrior ploughing through the soldiers, he had thought his champion looked noble. His long, dark hair was tied beneath his helm, his sword glinting in the waning sunlight, a black bear tooled upon the front of his breastplate. Roi’s Highland battler fought with a single-minded, steadfast courage, his eyes glowing a bright golden-brown.
When Gillie Ainndreis finally lay dead upon the ground, and Roi knelt afore his champion, offering up all that he was, a kind of peace settled upon him. Somewhere over the years, Roi had come to care deeply about the singular, violent man of his dreams.
That he would be the one to deliver Roi to the next life seemed aright. Fated.
And yet he spared Roi. Of a sudden, Roi was set adrift. For as long as he could remember, he had known what would come. This day would be his last. All the signs were there for a new beginning by his warrior’s—Lord Ewen’s—sword. Now, Roi stumbled about following Lord Ewen, blind to his future, rudderless, and with no purpose. The only thing familiar in this dark landscape was his warrior.
Long agone, when Roi had first entered Cerridwen’s temple, emotions had threatened to overwhelm him. He had buried them when he woke, confounded and afeared, from the first vision. As one touched by Cerridwen’s blessing, his mother had left him to the mercy of the clerics. Closed in by sober, stern-faced priests, Roi grasped he had been cast aside. They made him an acolyte and trained him for priesthood, all the while waiting for the greatness Roi’s gift would bestow upon the temple. He quickly learned to hide excess emotion lest it be used against him.
He glanced towards the man, Cináed, who had challenged Lord Ewen and pressed for his death. Cináed’s light of otherness abounded with portents of trouble and dark intent. The sight of the symbols about him caused a wave of soothing ease to wash over Roi. He retained who he was, his sight remained despite the fact that the course of his fate had changed.
Roi’s feet slowed and he dropped back from Lord Ewen and the High Steward. Lord Arailt and Lord Donn followed suit, crowding against him. Understandably, they did not allow Roi to be more than arm’s length from them, though he cared not. He ignored the intimidation and distrust in their countenance.
“Lord Ewen’s kinsman,” he tilted his chin towards Cináed, “he means Lord Ewen harm. I behold much envy about him.” Roi kept his voice low, yet the way Lord Ewen cocked his head made him wonder if he heard anyway.
Lord Donn, with his shoulder-length dark hair and modest beard, closely resembled Lord Ewen as a brother or cousin might. Lord Arailt had lighter colouring, milky-white skin, a lightly freckled nose, and waist-length red hair. Yet both he and Lord Donn bore an aura of power about them similar to Lord Ewen’s, only not pinched with pain as Lord Ewen’s appeared to be.
“If I knew not how ye arrived with the King of the Isles’ men, I would accuse ye of seeking to cause discord within our clan,” Lord Arailt commented.
Cináed planned harm to Lord Ewen, and one of them needed to guard against such treachery. Lord Ewen kept these two close for the High Steward’s defence, causing Roi to believe them to be his most trusted men. Mayhap he had been wrong. Roi kept his visage blank, cursing his loose tongue.
“Wiles, plotting—seeing—be this yer purpose in the service of Gillie Ainndreis and the King of the Isles?” Lord Donn’s gaze turned judging as he noted the dark markings upon Roi’s face.
Roi straightened his spine. For the most part, Roi had been avoided by everyone but Gillie Ainndreis and a chosen few of his close companions whilst in court. The uncovering of his singular abilities more oft than not resulted in violent actions from men of faith, who doled out cruelty as if they had an overabundance stored up for the likes of Roi. They feared what he could do, what he knew. Those who yearned for power sought to bribe him to read their peers or betters. Others studiously avoided him, throwing salt at him when he chanced by in an attempt to allay evil spirits.
Roi halted mid step, desperate to change the course of their interest even as his mind became blank. He awaited their response with caution. Would these men of Lord Ewen
’s be of the same ilk as the lordlings of the King of the Isles’ court?
“Answer me,” Lord Donn snapped impatiently.
Roi could not. His heart dropped in his chest. The frail hope that this new path would be better than his old life crumbled, snatched away like dust upon the wind because he had not kept his silence. Why had he said aught at all? But he knew why. For Lord Ewen. Lord Ewen had saved Roi’s life and, by doing so, Roi had become obligated to him. He had given Lord Ewen his oath.
“Arailt, Donn!” They all glanced at Lord Ewen. He and Lord Walter had halted to watch the three of them curiously. “Do not lag behind. There be much yet to take care of afore the gloaming.”
Behind Lord Ewen, off to the right, three men rose from amongst the dead and dying, their gazes trained upon Lord Ewen and the High Steward as they moved with practiced stealth towards the two. Roi reacted, afeard words would cause confusion and lead to Lord Ewen and Lord Walter being wounded. His liege’s countenance changed from curious to alarmed as Roi approached at a run. Lord Arailt and Lord Donn bellowed a warning he could not quite understand. Lord Ewen responded by pushing Lord Walter to the ground, covering him with a shield brought up to protect them from a blow.
An ancient battle cry, both a call for death and prayer for life, left Roi’s lips as he leapt over his new liege and the High Steward, the ravens feasting upon the dead launching into the air in a dark, thick mass, cawing loudly as they swirled overhead. The speed and power of his leap sent him crashing awkwardly into two of the fighters as he bashed them with his shield. The third man Roi caught with the hilt of his sword upon the nose, his face caving with the crunch of bone afore Roi took the others to the ground. In the tussle a boot caught him in the lower ribs as he struggled to rise, stealing his breath away. Roi lost hold of his shield and the robes wound about his legs. Trying to roll away only brought the man under him along. The fighter had lost his weapon but pulled a belt knife. This close, Roi’s sword was useless, so instead he grasped the man’s wrist to stop the knife from slicing his throat whilst he landed a blow to the warrior’s chin with his fist.